


Leotards and Lederhosen

by CousinNick



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Agron is a Medieval German Major and Soccer player dumbass, Basically I watched Bring it On that cheerleading movie? and was lovingly inspired, Chadara is better than you, Duro is a pole vaulter and balance beam demon, F/F, F/M, Gymnastics, M/M, Mira throws Gatorade at idiots, Naevia wants to go home, Nasir is a Near Eastern Archaeology major, Spartacus just wants to drink his non-fat latte and read the feminist mystique in peace, YAY SPORTS, his kryptonite is ballet slippers and the cute but emotionally constipated Greek bird man, pigeon love, pigeons named after favorite Greek Tragedies, that drives Agron insane, who does pretty things with his hair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 05:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CousinNick/pseuds/CousinNick
Summary: Gymnastics was where it was at for Duro; tumbling, vaulting horse, balance beam, crazy wicked flips off of city garbage dumpsters and children's swing sets--it didn't get any better than that. However, turns out the new University he transferred to after moving in with his brother didn't quite hold the same sentiment. After lamenting his future miserable existence without a spring-board or trampoline in sight, it's suggested he quit whining and join the school's ballet entourage. Enter 80's campy leotard montages, enraged Greek and German swearing, campus pigeons, and classy ballet solos ruined (enhanced) by AC/DC riffs.





	Leotards and Lederhosen

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to mycoto on tumblr for reading the first chapter draft! Your input and encouragement was vital, and I also owe a lot of inspiration for this fic because of your wonderful Duro and Agron art! I dedicate this fic to you! Check out their tumblr art blog at toxcoto http://toxcoto.tumblr.com/

“Holy Christ, Duro, what did you pack in these things?! Rocks?!” Agron groaned, heaving an ominously creaking carboard box in his arms. Duro rolled his eyes while pocketing his brothers’ car keys, watching Agron struggle with the box that held his most precious collection of DVDs and VHS’s before he took pity on his older brother and took a corner of the box and heaved. “While technically this box does include the precious WWE championship VHS of Dwayne _The Rock Johnson_ , no. It’s not rocks, you twat.”  
  
“Duro, for fucks sakes!” Agron growled, his grip loosening as he threatened to dump the whole lot on the cement sidewalk. “You do realize I told you to only bring the essentials. My apartment is cramped enough as it is without your weird crap.” Perhaps it had been a bad idea to invite his younger brother to live with him while he was finishing up his last year of University, especially with the possibility that Duro would drive him into an early grave and thus make it impossible to finish the remainder of his finals. Perhaps he should have really thought this through. Perhaps.  
  
“It’s only cramped because your god damn weight set takes up half of the living room!” Duro snapped back, yanking the box out his big brother’s grip and settling the bulk of the heft against his doubled over stomach. “And it’s not weird crap, it’s highbrow thrilling entertainment—something a bonehead like you wouldn’t understand.” He sniffed before turning on his heel, the sound of his sandals slapping against the hot pavement indicative of his ire.  
  
Aragon sighed. “Wrong door, asswipe. We live at 302 not 301.” He informed his brother who had the decency to look sheepish as he quickly pivoted and power-walked over the stubby lawn that lead to Mrs. Moretti’s apartment. She was a tiny little Italian lady that cajoled Agron into eating her homemade gnocchi and extremely boozy tiramisu when she caught him coming home half-starved from classes at the campus. He liked her, even if she did talk about anything other than the glories and tribunes of Rome where she was born. While she wasn’t one for a conversationalist it would be a cold day in Hades when Agron refused free food and highly alcoholic desserts.  
  
Shaking his head as he grabbed another box, this one at least a little bit lighter than the other cardboard monstrosities in his beat-up Subaru, Agron followed Duro up the slight concrete incline that lead to Agron’s—and now Duro’s, meager place of residence.  
  
After their German-born dad died and they moved to Indiana to live closer to their mom and her folks, Agron had taken it upon himself to be completely independent. Or, at least, tried to. He had been awarded a pretty good break from his tuition costs with a soccer scholarship and started off the first semester at Libertus College with two jobs—one at Cold Stone Ice creamery where he was required to sing and dance on command while sprinkling chopped peanuts on frozen dairy, and another at a local sports gear shop in town which wasn’t too bad until people kept asking him where _he_ worked out and if they could join him some time. Agron did not need to be picked up at a god damn foot locker, no thank you.  
  
However, no matter how independent he claimed to be—a lone wolf, if you will, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that something was absolutely missing from his life, and that was his little annoying nose-ringed yapping brother.  
  
Said brother Duro who had dumped all his moving-in boxes on Agron’s small twin bed as easy as you please.  
  
“Duro, the fuck?” Agron growled, shouldering past his little brother to slide a few shoe boxes off of his just laundered bedspread—screwdrivers and old bottle caps spilling out of their poorly duct taped lids and clattering to the floor.  
  
“Hey!” Those deep brown eyes were furrowed with viciously wicked eyebrows, so much so that Duro almost looked actually hurt as he knelt down to clean up the mess—but Agron knew what a little heinous shit he really was.  
  
“You’re staying in the next room, kleiner bruder. This here’s my room.” Agron knocked over another box, causing Duro to emit a high-pitched squeal of frustration as his arms swooped to scoop his bundle of dumped mismatched sock rolls.  
  
“There’s half a carton of milk in the fridge and some left-over ziti that Mrs. Moretti dropped off this morning in the freezer.  
  
Duro made a face at the unfamiliar word. “What the fuck is _ziti_? Sounds like slang for a sexually transmitted disease…” “I dunno, asswipe why not heat it up, eat it, and fuckin’ figure it out.” His brother palmed at his crinkly hair, messing it all up and skewing the oddly knitted brown locks in all sorts of unappealing directions—as such Duro sulked and elbowed Agron in the gut much to the others delighted mirth.  
  
“Remember to try and get some sleep tonight, butthead. I gotta’ be out the door by 5:00am for a run with the crew and I will not hesitate to murder you if you keep me up.” Agron warned, pointing a finger at Duro who was busy dropping neon purple gravel into a dusty fish tank. “Right. Uh-huh. 5:00am. Murder.” Duro mumbled back. Agron sighed.  
  
“Just…Try to have a good first week, yeah?” Agron asked, pulling the door closed softly. Duro could hear his gigantic feet padding across to his own room before the soft thud of a door closing echoed down the hall.  
  
Dumping the last of the gaudy rocks from his palm into the glass bowl he sat down on his beat up squeaky swivel chair, rolling it around mindlessly for a bit till Agron’s muffled voice of “Duro, I swear to God, _murder_ …” had him fleeing the chair and flopping onto his bed instead. Curling one of his dirty fingernails into his hair he mimicked the coiled lock pattern before heaving a sigh with much exasperated angst and effort. Yeah. He’d have a good week. A terrific week. A fan-fuckin-tastic week. He ignored the less than confident feeling in his gut as he sunk into sleep, lulled by the noise of the fan and Agron’s bearish snoring.  
  
The first time Duro woke up that morning was to an empty apartment at around noon—it was hot, and the fan was most certainly doing nothing but wafting dust and warm air over his bare back and so Duro threw a tennis shoe from the floor at the annoying rotating device, knocking it over with a skid and a screech.  
  
“…. Fan…fucking-tastic.” A stupid sleepy smirk still on his lips, he rolled over and attempted to shove his face under his pillow, sighing at the coolness of the cloth and the substantial lack of wet drool on this side of the mattress.  
  
The next time he woke up that morning was about 1:42pm, mainly because Agron had just arrived from his last lecture balancing in his arms a greasy and delectable bag of kebabs and gyros from that Mediterranean place off of campus. Additionally, he also had a decidedly pretty porcelain casserole dish of crumbly apple pie courtesy of Mrs. Moretti who had caught him by the arm no matter how hard he tried to evade her with pleads of “no ma’m, really, we’re fine,” and “yes ma’m, of course your apple pie is the best, better than my own mother’s, but…” “yes ma’m, I’ll be sure to give her the recipe” “of course, 30 seconds in the microwave mmhmm. Ice Cream if I have it.”  
  
“Holy fuck have you been in bed the whole day?” Agron chastised, grabbing Duro by the ankle and yanking half of his worthless bulk off the bed.  
  
Yelping in sudden pain as his knee knocked against the wooden grain of the floor, the younger Müller brother bared his teeth. “Ugh, go away—I was having a dream of getting it on with the entire German Olympics Gymnastics team!” Duro shoved his sheet over his head. “All at the same time!”  
  
Agron scoffed. “Marcel Nguyen will never ever go near your hairy ass, not even in your dreams, bruder.”  
  
Duro stuck his tongue out viciously, scrunching his nose up in distaste at his brothers lacking confidence.  
  
“I will choose to ignore your scathing remarks in exchange for whatever smells like delectably cured meat in that bag and a slice of apple pie.” Wobbling up on his legs he caught the tie-dye tank top Agron threw his way and shimmied it on, padding barefoot to the kitchen after Agron who had started a long-winded lecture about personal hygiene and responsibility with a little something about REM sleep cycles peppered in between.  
  
Duro dutifully nodded along with a mouth full of sticky apples and a fork stabbing at the colorful insides of a deconstructed unleavened flat wrap. Mmm. Pickled Lebanese turnips. His favorite.  
  
“…and that’s not even bringing up the fact that you have yet to get your driver’s license even though you’re twenty-one years old and halfway into a B.A. I swear to the Gods, Duro, you’ve gotta’ start taking this shit seriously. I’m not going to always be there for you—”  
  
“Of course you are!” Duro piped up, swiping some tziki sauce from his chin as he beamed up at an exasperated Agron. As if his hulking older brother would pass up being a mothering hen—Agron had been looking out for him since Duro was tottering around in diapers and sticking his little pinkies in electrical sockets. That over-protective sibling bonding shit wasn’t going to stop just because Durro had traded in his diapers for briefs and upgraded his fascination for electricity to a healthy interest in body contortionism and death-defying vault beams.  
  
The taller of the two finished piling some plastic carton pilaf onto his own chipped plate before shrugging into the opposite seat. Picking at his food for a record of three seconds, he finally dropped the fork and set a hard stare at his brother.  
  
“You know I don’t do this to torture you.”  
  
Duro snorted.  
  
“I’m serious, I just want you to have a good life, be successful and all that shit. I know you didn’t want to leave mamma…” Agron swallowed thickly, clearing his throat with a sip of his Gatorade. “I know you always hoped we’d all move back to Germany with Dad’s family…But, Duro, we have to make this work. I’ll do my part if you do yours, okay? Hell, even if it means having to deal when you play shitty Beastie Boys on repeat and leave all your dirty gym socks in the creases of the couch like back home, alright?”  
  
Rubbing the stress from his eyes with the pad of his thumbs, Duro nodded shakily, trying his best to crack a smile at his brother’s imploring gaze. “Okay, dude. If it means that much to you I’ll cut the ‘woe is me crap’—and who knows maybe moving to this city will be good for me, you know? I could be spotted by some famous photographer and put into a commercial or something?! Maybe even get mugged on the campus cross-street and write about it in my memoirs and sell over a million copies?” He grinned wolfishly, earning a half-hearted noogie from Agron.  
  
“Yeah okay, Hemmingway, but first focus on getting your textbooks at the campus bookstore and not flunking your first semester before classes have even started…and learn how to shower properly, Jesus Christ I think I see mold growing in your ear.” Agron laughed before flicking the offending dirty lobe, causing his brother to squawk and fling his gangly arms around the too cramped kitchen, knocking over a probably stale box of pop tarts in the process.  
  
“Fine, fine!” The curly haired mange-suffering brother crowed, rubbing his tender ear, being mindful of his cluttered collection of earrings and hoops.  
  
Humming to himself, he tucked one of his knees under his chin and wrapped his arms round himself. “This will be great. I’ve got my brother, my awesome sense of style, and who know? A University this big has got to have an absolutely bitchin’ Gymnastics team just dying to have me grace their presence.”  
  
“That’s the spirit, ya little shit!” Agron ruffled his greasy hair once more before fucking off to the cramped little couch wedged under the windowsill to finish his meal in the basking glow of the Oprah Winfrey Show. It was 3:00pm of course, and that always meant time for Oprah.  
  
Untangling his limbs and attempting to rock back in forth on one out of the four stilted legs of the kitchen chair he was currently precariously perched upon, Duro kept up the sunny little hum wafting under his breath.  
  
“Yeah man, fuck off bad thoughts, this is gonna’ be the best week of my life—the best years of my life!” He promised himself, and holy shit did he actually believe it.  
  
…  
  
“I want to dieeeeeeee.” Duro groaned as he sank into the ripped polyester booth of the rundown pizza shack.  
  
The shitty hole in the wall was a volatile den of carbohydrates, cheesy sin, and mismatched red and white tiling that Agron and his soccer teammates only got to indulge in a few times out of the month. They had a strict diet, enforced by Mira and their team’s fearless leader and striker Spartacus, and could only scarf down their weight in pizza now before back to back game training commenced. The eldest Müller brother had tried to make the best out of this regime before his lunches would be reduced to lean turkey breasts, sweet potatoes, and fruits by absolutely murdering three fourths of an entire meat-lovers pizza complete with Canadian bacon and shavings of peppered sausage. Truly, it was enough to make one’s gut clench and spasm just from the offending sight.  
  
Wiping the oil stains from his lips with a napkin, Agron rolled his eyes before scooting down and letting his brother wedge himself next to him and the teams leader, a cleanly dressed man with short chestnut hair and calm demur that quickly turned diplomatically annoyed when Duro’s elbow almost knocked over a soda on his highlighted copy of Bell Hooks’ _The Will to Change_.  
  
“Alright, you little shit-stain, what’s wrong this time? Did campus police stop you because you matched the description of a crusty drug dealer?”  
  
A man opposite of Agron, hulking and covered in an arm band of swirling bright blue tattoos on his arm snorted in amusement, only to receive a stone-faced warning glare from Agron. Only he could rip into his little fucked up baby brother, thank you very much.  
  
“For the last time, no! That was a misunderstanding, I did not break into that lady’s car, I was merely at the wrong place at the wrong time—anyway.” Duro flapped his hands frantically back and forth dismissively. He needed this to be taken seriously, god damn it, this was a real life changing development—and one for the worst.  
  
“This fucking University has no Gymnastics team. None! Not even a little club to then later evolve into a solid powerful States winning team like the best of the tear-jerking Hallmark movies.” Durro wrung his hands together, his bushy brows furrowed and calculating as he pouted, sending imploring eyes to his older brother.  
  
“Dude, this sucks major ass.” He whined pitifully.  
  
Clearing his throat and trying not to make eye contact with any of his mates who had continued to stare at the unkept burly urchin with gangly limbs that had made himself comfortable at their booth, Agron fiddled with the stained napkin in his grip.  
  
“Well, why don’t you consider another team—you can always show up for soccer tryouts and play with me?”  
  
Duro was unable to hide his face of unrivaled disgust. “And chase a ball around like a jackass? Yeah, thanks, but no.”  
  
Lacking the ability to read the room, and thus take a hint from all the scowling soccer players now glaring at him, Duro reclined back and exhaled a long and suffering breath. “What in Hades am I gonna’ do now? Maybe I should just drop out, nothing is worth it anymore.”  
  
Agron shoved him with his broad shoulder, rolling his eyes. “Beggars can’t be choosers, dude. You can sit and complain, or you can actually do something about it. Also, you are definitely not dropping out. I will drag you by the front of your teeth to class each and every morning if I have to.”  
  
Duro pressed his finger to his lips and after a moments contemplation, nodded fiercely. “Hm. Class for two incredibly vault-less years, or you having to dislocate my jaw and yank out my teeth. Class..teeth…class…teeth…Decisions, decisions.”  
  
He honestly didn’t think this was the end of the world, it was just that moving here was supposed to be better. He was thankful to be with his elder brother, yes, and he knew that in order to make his mother proud he had to earn some certificate or other (either that or a giant stamp on his forehead that didn’t spell “dumbass”) that declared him a functioning member of society worth something—whether that was a job at an auto parts factory, retail service, or his ultimate dream job since he was six years old—dog catcher (catch and release of course, to the dismay and havoc of the entire neighborhood).  
  
Agron had a dream and had done a shit ton of work and effort to achieve it. Balancing being a fuckboy bonehead soccer player and a snobby Old High German literature major to become the perfect mesh of nerd and jock—he was a hybrid any mother could be proud of and any single fresher would wanna’ throw themselves at. It had taken long hours at the gym, an amassing of practice tests and pulling all nighter’s at the University library while being on a first name basis with all the baristas in a three-mile radius as if each one who distributed caffeine was his personal drug dealer. Agron deserved success, he had smelt it out, hunted it relentlessly, and would never let it go without a fight.  
  
Duro? Well. Duro had that drive when he was a kid and wanted to be everything that Agron wanted to be as sniveling brats—cowboy astronauts, race car drivers like Andreas Wirth, the chefs with the best chocolate cake recipe ever (even better than their mom’s). But then Agron started to get serious and got bookish, and while Duro could hold his own against his brother’s athletics—for a time—being smart and earning gold stars in grade school was where the brothers sharply differentiated. Don’t get him wrong, Agron could still be a complete nimrod, and often was, but it was different. Whereas Agron would try and fail…Duro wouldn’t even try.  
  
They were adults now, but the only thing Duro wanted to accomplish was to curl under his bedcovers and only come out for his daily coco-puffs cereal binge that he was sure would be enough to sustain his body until he could die at the ripe old age of thirty-two.  
  
Yes, bravo. A wonderful plan. Wunderbar.  
  
“Okay, so maybe soccer isn’t for you—but there has to be another sport that you could try.” The sweet but stern voice of a woman who had dealt with the underwhelming pathetic-ness of men on a daily basis chimed in, smooth as airconditioned breeze on a hot as balls summer evening.  
  
Naevia, Duro thought her name was. She ran a pretty wicked zine with her co-author Mira on Women’s rights on campus centered around abuse hotlines and the occasional poetry column heavily supplied by Spartacus when he occasionally became soulful and mulish. Additionally, she was a part of the soccer team’s co-ed initiative and could, according to Agron, hold her own against the giant bulk of her teammates quite well as one of the midfielders in the matches. Her efforts had been handsomely rewarded as Oenomaus, the aging Head Coach, had taken the time to specifically train her over the summer session.  
  
“Alright, I’ll bite. What do you think?” Reclining back once more he took one of his brother’s left-over pizza crusts, gnawing on it thoughtfully.  
  
“We have a pretty good track team—”  
  
“Pass. Running in shorts makes me itch in uncomfortable places.”  
  
“ _Ohhh_...kay. Swimming?”  
  
“And cut off circulation to my junk in those tiny speedos? Plus, have you seen how much hair I have to deal with?” Durro scratched his stubby facial hair roughly. “Just imagine the deforestation process with all that shaving and wax down there! Save the rainforest my ass! Ugh, no, it wouldn’t work.”  
  
All of the players shook their head with disgust, Agron himself looking like he was about to regurgitate his entire meal onto his lap.  
  
“Jesus, okay how about tennis?” Mira supplied, but not hoping for much. Which was what she got.  
  
“Too preppy.”  
  
“Golf?” Spartacus joined in despite his best efforts to keep his nose in his book on the entities of male privilege and not sink into debauched debate with his best mate’s little brother.  
  
“Were you not listening about my detailed manifesto against tennis?! Seriously, come on guys!” Clapping his hands with sharp hits, he snarled. “Keep up!”  
  
“Football—great contact sport.” Grinned Barca, though at the shining gleam in his eyes Duro was pretty convinced that the elder goalkeeper just wanted to see Duro get his head smashed into his helmet in some form of brain puddle soup. Yikes.  
  
“Now that will definitely sever my groin from my body.” He nodded conclusively.  
  
“Does everything concern your balls, or??” Quipped Varro, a chewed soda straw clenched between his pearly whites.  
  
“So nosey.” Duro dismissed him. It wasn’t his fault if he had a mind to keep his entire body in tact thank you very much. There would be many disappointed fans, he was sure, if his favorite body part got crushed in some freak sports accident.  
  
“What about volley-ball where they use your head as the ball.” Crixus huffed, the curl of his lip derisive.  
  
“Better to use your giant skull since it’s so god damn empty.” Agron gritted out, Spartacus instinctively grabbing the other man’s bicep and yanking him back as if he had practiced the move a hundred times before. Which, knowing those two, he probably had.  
  
“Alright, alright. I have it.” Naevia declared, her eyes leveling Duro’s own and ignoring the terrified look in his brown gaze that was once only impish and entirely stupid.  
  
“Cirxus’ friend Auctus runs a ballet class on campus—” “Eughhhhh… Booooooo.” Duro hissed only to stop sharply when Crixus kicked him under the table—hard.  
  
“Don’t boo my girlfriend you little cockhead.” He growled.  
  
If looks could kill Duro would already be dead, and so he settled down and satisfied himself with listening intently but doing so with arms crossed tight against his chest like some toddler protesting the absurdity of being put in timeout.  
  
“The course is worth 2 units, so you’ll get some credit, and it won’t be a complete waste of your academic time. Plus, as I said before I was so rudely interrupted, we know the guy who facilitates it—he’s finishing a joint master’s degree in Dance Performance Studies and Ancient Greek centered around something like uh, the use of the Greek Chorus in tragedies? Or something, I don’t know—either way you should look into it. I think enrollment is open till the second week of instruction.”  
  
Duro tried not to snap out something utterly ungrateful, but to no avail, and instead settled for curling his lip. To the tune of an affronted snort he declared that ballet was much too posh and bourgeoisie for him and he’d rather be caught dead wrapped in a clown outfit in a dumpster than prance around a stage to boring classical music.  
  
Rolling his eyes and most definitely not coming to his brother’s defense, Agron sighed. “Oh my god Duro stop it. I know you’ve worn leotards and twirled ribbons back at GCC, don’t be difficult.”  
  
“I have proof of this; your brother showed me your gymnastic tryout tapes for community college.” Donnar grinned deviously.  
  
“Arschloch.” Duro hissed at the both of them, though he only got a thunderous chuckle from the only other Germans at the table.  
  
Naevia, ignoring the lot of them, simply handed off the little sticky note that indeed held all of the needed information about the class instruction date and time. She really didn’t know if Duro would accept her help, especially if he was anything like his stubborn brother who she had been playing with for a semester. Whatever. She had done her part; the ball was in his court now. Er…the ballet slipper. The tutu? Oh god what had she done?  
  
Wadding up all the greasy napkins and paper plates the team had ruined during their lunch, she handed them off to an obedient Crixus who shoved them into the recycle trash bin. The rest of the team started to take the hint and packed up their water bottles, protein shakes, and hurried lecture notes, since most of them had decided to do a few lazy drills on the reserved field. Toeing at a soccer ball in the sun after gorging themselves on pizza sounded a lot better than helping Duro with his problem, that was for damn sure.  
  
Watching them all go about their lives with a feeling of purpose made Duro sink even deeper into the sticky booth that smelt of powdered garlic and college student’s tears. It was only when Naevia turned to squeeze Duro’s shoulder softly that his irritable slouch loosened slightly…and then revved back up.  
  
“Promise me you’ll go.”  
  
“Ich spreche kein Englisch.” He turned away from her in the booth, so that the only thing she could do was turn to Agron for help.  
  
“Don’t do that thing where you pretend you don’t speak English, oh my god, I taught you that you cannot use it against us, it doesn’t work that way.” Agron grumbled, yanking at his brother’s wrinkled shirt collar which only succeed in the other metaphorically digging his heels in further. Even flicking the others ear a couple of times did nothing to budge him.  
  
“It worked when the cops pulled us over for speeding when you first got your license.” Duro sing-songed in a mock German accent that was way too stereotypical to have naturally come to the brothers. It sounded like it belonged on the chilly Matterhorn herding goats and wearing lederhosen.  
  
“Duro…” Agron pulled harder on the shirt to where the younger could hear the tell-tale signs of cotton giving way to stitching.  
  
“Okay, okay! I’ll try it,” he assured Naevia, his hands thrown up into the air in frustration at untangling himself from his brothers manhandling. That was his favorite Violent Femmes band shirt too, the dick!  
  
“Perfect! I’ll tell Auctus to expect you, okay?” She hummed.  
  
“Okay!” He chimed back with raised eyebrows and saccharine happiness that was utterly sarcastic. She only continued to smile with a bite to her teeth that looked a little too enthusiastic for his taste.  
  
The fact that Crixus passed by him muttering about how “Auctus was gonna’ eat this pup alive,” didn’t make him feel any better either.


End file.
